


The forgotten strength of women

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-06 19:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10342962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: Elder sisters are dangerous creatures.





	1. Daenerys, adrift in a grassy sea, anchors herself.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a series, added to whenever I remember it, of one-shots where the daughters of various Westerosi families are born ahead of their brothers - there are going to be _so many Targaryens_ in this.

**i.**

“I am three and ten,” he says, her little brother with beaten-silver hair and beaten-bruised face - boys in the street, unamused by the Lysene looking brat claiming dominion. “I am a man grown, or near as makes no difference - we will wed as soon as we can find a septon, so that our marriage will be unquestionably valid when we reclaim Westeros.”

Daenerys, eight years Viserys’ senior, too young to have been of use to one brother and too weary for the other, sighs.

“We will not find a septon here, little brother,” she points out evenly, not looking away from the special performance Illyrio has ordered for them. The dancers are lithe, beautiful, pale and fair-haired to a one, and Daenerys has seen both the bed slaves Illyrio favours and the statue he claims is himself in his youth, and wonders just how safe Viserys is in the cheesemonger’s manse. “The furthest east any septon will wander is to the Sept-Beyond-The-Sea, in Braavos. You know that, Viserys.”

His face, as beautiful and pale as any of the dancers, goes violently scarlet at the quiet reprimand. Her brother thinks himself a true dragon, and is therefore ready to breathe fire in any moment of temper. 

“Do not shame us,” she warns him, smiling and raising her cup to far-away Illyrio, resplendent in golden silks, laid on blue velvet pillows. “The magister has been generous, and need not be any longer if we seem ungrateful - your ill temper has cost us much already, little brother.”

**ii.**

“I am no little girl upon whose maidenhead you might wager, magister,” Dany says, when Illyrio brings up the great Khal Drogo, come to seek tribute and a bride. “I am one-and-twenty, and have done as I had to in order to feed my brother. Will your Khal Drogo think me worthy of his cock, if he knows that other men have shaped the passage before him?”

To her surprise, Illyrio’s temper does not rise - instead, he laughs. Daenerys wonders if his laughter would fade and fail if she were to tell him that, sometimes, she has considered bartering what little she has yet secreted away for passage to Braavos, where she could make a glorious living as a courtesan. She has the face for it, and the skill in bed, and if she were lucky, it might not be impossible to seek an apprenticeship of sorts with the Black Pearl - they are kin, after all, no matter how distant.

“My dear Princess,” the magister says, now in jade green, lying on silver satin. “It almost sounds as though you do not wish to wed the Khal - and yet, I see no other great men waiting for your hand, particularly not with an army at their back. Do you not wish to reclaim your brother’s throne?”

Always Viserys’ throne, his crown, his realm - his, his, his, as though he has done anything to deserve such things. Daenerys fights hard against the cruelty she remembers in her father, but it wells up from her belly sometimes, choking her with fury at how _ungrateful_ Viserys is, how demanding and how _stupid._

But she has a duty to him - she is his sister, he her _King,_ however sour that tastes in her mouth, and she must do what she can to return him to the throne their father and brother lost.

**iii**.

“No,” she says, knife to Drogo’s throat. His hand, huge and powerful, is wrapped around the back of her neck, with the intent of pushing her to her hands and knees. Daenerys has lain with enough men, for pleasure and for coin, to know what it is this supposed husband of hers intends, and she will not be taken as a backstreet whore now that she is a lawful wife. “Never again.”

He looks at her, stunned, and when he releases her neck to raise that powerful hand to strike her in the face, she lets her little knife score him from collar to navel, and laughs at his shock - his hand lowers, and he regards her now with wary eyes, as though she is a snake poised to strike.

No, not a snake. A _dragon._

She daubs his wound - a graze, really - clean with a torn-off strip from the hem of her useless, gauzy dress, and concedes just enough to let him lie atop her.

But she looks him in the eye, until his eyes close. That is a power, of sorts, just as the curious shame he regards her with before he leaves her is a victory she never expected to win.

Let him be ashamed of bedding her other than as a stallion mounts a filly. She, at least, feels nothing but dissatisfaction at a job poorly done, on his part.

**iv.**

“Tell him,” Viserys orders her, “that he must give me my army _now!”_

His voice has not quite broken, and still creaks like an old door in odd places, giving an uneven cadence to his words that makes her laugh, sometimes. 

“No,” she says, not even looking back to him, over her shoulder. “There are rites that must be observed first, and if you are to have an army of Dothraki screamers, then you must show some little respect to the Dothraki people. Mind your tongue, little brother, or they may well cut it out.”

His temper rises in scarlet cheeks, but Dany finds that she does not care - let him scream. She is two-and-twenty now, a woman more than grown, and Viserys Stormborn is nothing to her, not now that she carries within her the Khal’s son, not now that she has learned to speak the Khal’s tongue, not now that she has the curious shame the Khal feels at her obvious disaffection with his performances in her bed as a weapon to wield against her husband. 

“Mind as you go, Your Grace,” the Westerosi Bear says, his eyes trailing greedy-hot over the exposed skin of her upper back. “The Khal will not take it well if you mistreat his khaleesi.”

_Khaleesi._ A good title. Better than _Queen,_ if Viserys is to be her King.

**v.**

Her first thought upon meeting the dosh khaleen is _Mother would have loved it here._

Daenerys does not often think of her mother - sometimes, the pain is too much, other times, the anger - but here, in the shadow of Vaes Dothrak, there is neither hollowing loss nor blinding rage. 

The crones who hold the whole of the Dothraki in their wrinkled hands take her to their hearts, once she has eaten that of a horse.

_The Stallion Who Mounts The World,_ she thinks, and also, _are you as proud of me as you were of Rhaegar, Mama?_

She cites her thrown-down brother when she dubs the child in her twisting, sickened belly _Rhaego,_ but for whom could she have ever named her firstborn save for her mother?

**vi.**

Rhaego is born amidst salt and smoke, fire and blood - her labour begins immediately after she has laid the torch on Drogo’s pyre.

Viserys is dead, cut down by Jhaqo’s men, or perhaps by the Bear who coughs and cries behind her - Daenerys does not doubt that Jorah Mormont, slaver, coveter, will be loyal to her now that she is a widow with what could be seen as open heart and open bed, but she does not care. So long as his longsword protects Rhaego, Viserys’ murder can be forgiven.

Had her brother not, after all, raised steel to her son? Daenerys raised Viserys as a son herself, from her childhood, and he repaid her with betrayal.

But Rhaego, her sun, her son, and the dragons that curl around her and the babe, like the stars around the moon, they are the future. Viserys, Drogo, even her mother - they are all in the past.

“We are the last of House Targaryen, little wonder,” she whispers to him, as he takes suck with one tiny hand curled over the head of the bright white dragon. The fire had crisped away her hair and her clothes alike, and perhaps it was the shock of that, or of the first dragon’s cry, that had started her labour - she does not know. All she knows is that this boy, this son, is the Stallion That Mounts The World, and she will fly on dragonback by his side.

“Find me something to wear,” she asks of Irri, who looks terrified and thrilled in equal measure. “And something in which to wrap the babe - and something to stuff between my legs, to halt the bleeding a little. We have a long way to go, and never enough time.”

“Yes, khaleesi,” Irri says, bowing low, and Daenerys smiles.

Perhaps she was a little hasty in considering the life of a Braavosi courtesan - there is a great deal to be said of temporal power, rather than sexual.

A woman need not spread her legs in order to be strong, after all.


	2. Elia, on the brink of war, gathers her armies

**i.**

Mama says that Doran and Oberyn are like night and day, still and explosive, moon and stars.

“Not moon and sun?” Elia asks, and Mama laughs, Mama cups her face and kisses her brow.

“No, my little sandstorm,” she says, strong and sturdy where Elia has her father’s slight shoulders and delicate face. “No, your brother is not the sun - _you_ are.”

It takes a long while for Elia to realise that her mother means this as something other than a kindness.

**ii.**

Elia fosters at Starfall, and falls halfway in love with Allem Dayne before she understands that his heart belongs to his castle, and it would be crueler than she could bear to split the two.

Besides, Elaida Manwoody is their companion too, haughty and quick to laugh at once, and beautiful in the strong sort of way Elia so envies.

“I would never have made a good husband to you,” Allem says, sheepish and pink-cheeked, washed all in purple and red by the setting sun when they sit shoulder-to-shoulder atop the Palestone Tower, overlooking the wide sweep of the sea. “I’m too attached to Starfall-”

“And to Arthur and Ashara,” she says, teasing just a little, but envious of that, too - how she wishes to be as close to her brothers as Allem is to his brother and sister, who by some cruel twist of fate are twins in age to Doran and Oberyn. But that is not to be, for she is here and they are playing at the Water Gardens, little boys who fight and bicker as often as they wage war as brothers-in-arms against their little friends. "I am not upset, Allem. I hold you too dear as a friend to ever risk losing your companionship."

Elia fosters at Starfall, and finds her general in Allem Dayne, who will not wield Dawn but who is the truest knight his House has ever produced, in her mind.

**iii.**

Papa's health has always been frail, as frail as Elia's own, and so he is guardian of the Water Gardens and all the children who play there - the air is softer, kinder to his creaking joints, and Mama visits him often enough that they do not miss one another too painfully.

"You will need to marry, little one," he says, gathering her under his arm and kissing her brow. "Mayhaps it is time your mama and I helped you look for a suitable husband, hmm?"

Papa would not live to see her married, would not even live to see her betrothed, but she would be able to see his influence in her mother's guidance, when the time came. It would help, a little.

**iv.**

Papa was a Qorgyle, and so must be given to the sands. 

Mama, Elia knows, wishes she could give him to the waters, but his sister comes to bring him home, as all Qorgyles are brought out to the western desert, and Mama does not fight with Aunt Gulia, does not deny the condolences cousin Quentyn offers. 

"I think I would not mind being given to the sands," Elia says, as they watch Papa's bones being carried away by his birth-kin. "It might be peaceful, among the dunes."

"We are Martells, Elia," Mama says, firm voice wavering. "We are Nymeria's heirs."

"I know, Mama," Elia promises, stretching up to kiss her mother's cheek and ignoring the tears she sees there. "I meant nothing by it."

They hold hands, watching Papa's train disappear with the sun, and Elia feels the world turn.

_You will need to marry, little one,_ she hears, and knows it to be true, really true, for the first time.

**v.**

"Tell me then, Elia," Mama says, "who would you wed?"

Elia, nine-and-ten, unsure if her body will allow her children, wonders who would wed her.

**vi.**

"You coddle her, Loreza," Uncle Lewyn says, standing beside Elia, who sits in the shade of the blood orange trees. The Water Gardens are kinder to her creaking joints, just as they were to Papa's, but she comes here less often than he did, not daring to show such weakness - she is to rule Dorne, after all, and must be strong, as her lady mother is. "Let Elia come with me."

"No, brother," Mama says, sharp enough to draw curious eyes from the pools. Elia waves the children away with a smile, watches them return to their play, and waits for her mother to continue. "Elia must remain here. She must remain in Dorne."

"Why, Loreza?" Lewyn asks, hand heavy and warm on Elia's shoulder. He carries a sword, her uncle who is near a brother to her in age, and is serious where everyone expects him to laugh, to complement Mama as Oberyn does Doran. "Why should she not have the freedom you would afford either of her brothers, were they coming of age?"

Elia came of age just over four years ago, but she chooses not to correct Lewyn on this. Doran is eleven now, Oberyn ten, and soon, Mama will hunt for wives for them. 

Mama has never hunted for a husband for Elia, not with any serious intent, because the maesters think Elia will never have children, and what point is there in spoiling an alliance on a childless match when it could be made with Doran's hand instead?

She is getting old, and unmarried as she is, that is a grave danger. Much older and she will never find a husband, and never have a child.

She so wants children. Even just one child would do, really.

**vii.**

She does not go to Essos.

She does, however, go to Casterly Rock - Lewyn will keep Sunspear, with Oberyn gleeful at his heels, and Elia will keep with Mama, will keep Doran in check, while they visit Mama's dearest friend and her new babe.

On the way, they visit Starfall, where Allem and Elaida are brittle with grief at the loss of their first babe, a babe Elaida is certain would have been a girl, and Doran is fascinated with Ashara, who laughs at him when he asks her to dance.

They visit Old Oaks, too, and here is the woman Elia wishes she could be, a woman such as Nymeria of old - Arwyn Oakheart, young and fierce and beautiful, a woman north of the Marches who will hold her own seat and give her husband her name, who holds Elia's hands and swears to write to her, for in their hearts they are not so different, even if no one would ever guess it to look.

They visit at the High Tower, too, and Baelor Hightower is perhaps a little young for her but also  _achingly_ charming, and Elia wishes that she were not so aware of her ill health, and of her duties - had she met him when she was younger, had she been born second instead of first, had  _he_ not been the eldest son of his family, things might have been different.

But things are as they are, and so she leaves the Hightower with a friend, who will take her side and plead her case with his father and his Tyrell goodbrother alike. Elia has a great many friends throughout Dorne, and it feels a great accomplishment to make one beyond their borders.

She feels as if she may have need of friends, in the days to come.

**viii.**

Casterly Rock looms massive and red-gold above them, sandstone worn hard by a thousand years of bracing salt air. 

"How oppressive," Mama says, tossing her head and standing imperious and tall, as though her heart was not broken by the news they were given at Crakehall. "She deserves a better resting place than this."

Elia knew Joanna Lannister only a little, but she cannot agree with her mother - here, in this grandeur and splendour, there is an echo of the precise ostentation Lady Joanna so skilfully employed, and Elia thinks that it fits her perfectly.

But she does not say so. It would only anger Mama.

"It smells cold," Doran says thoughtfully, breathing in deep and hard. Elia does the same, surprised by how easily the air fills her lungs - like the Water Gardens, or high in the towers of Sunspear, clean and fresh and sharp. "I like it."

"No doubt you do," Mama says, and climbs into the litter without another word. Elia shrugs at Doran's questioning look, and follows her mother.

**ix.**

They leave the Rock in a storm, Mother furious and Doran more thoughtful than downcast - but then, when is Doran anything  _but_ thoughtful?

Elia finds another friend, though, when fierce Lord Tywin's youngest brother comes to their manse to offer apologies on his brother's behalf. He is Doran's age, a strikingly handsome boy with a roguish sort of smile that reminds her of Oberyn. 

_Someday,_ she thinks, watching Doran fold this golden cub into his confidence with the same ease he uses when managing Oberyn,  _you will fight for us, child._

War is coming. Elia can feel it in her weak bones, even if no one else seems to worry over it.

**x.**

They are forced to take the roads home, long roads they never thought to travel, because of storms in the Sunset Sea and brigands on the ocean road - not that Mama would ever travel by any road that might bring her to Highgarden, of course. 

And so they take the gold road, and are invited to Riverrun as a matter of course, because it would be remiss of newly-a-lord Hoster Tully to allow them to pass through the Riverlands without hosting them in his own castle, and Elia's world...  _Tilts._

Brynden Tully is nothing she expected, and it would seem that she is a surprise to him, too.

**xi.**

Elia is one-and-twenty, and she has never been kissed.

Brynden Tully is four-and-twenty, and admits to having kissed only two others before her, when he gathers her close and dips his head down and down, so his mouth brushes over hers as he speaks.

And then, Elia is one-and-twenty, and knows that she likes kissing  _very_ much.

**xii.**

"There is a war coming," Elia says, to Lewyn, to Allem, to Elaida, to Arwyn, to Baelor. "I can smell it in the air."

Her wedding is tomorrow, and Brynden has already complained about the heat four times since his arrival just the day before yesterday. She laughed each time, and kissed him, and he smiled, so she thinks he is just complaining for the look of the thing.

"The King is mad," Lewyn says, his white armour gleaming red-and-orange in the setting sun. "I have been in King's Landing for the better part of a year now, and there is nothing to recommend him. His treatment of the Queen is... Reprehensible."

"There are whispers," Allem says, pale silver hair and dark indigo eyes startling in the shadows, "coming south, with sailors - they say that there are stirrings all across the northern half of the realm. These fosterings in the Vale have made people wonder."

Indeed they have, Elia knows, because of the letters from her friends, carrying news from  _their_ friends, who live further afield. 

"We will discuss it later," she says, turning to face them fully, thrilled that there is not a single inch of her that aches just now, "but tonight, we are here to celebrate, and tomorrow, I will have a husband."

Her friends, from Dorne and from the Reach, and her husband-to-be from the Riverlands who is in the eastern tower, facing the dawn, with his brother and friends from Riverlands and Vale and Crownlands, they will be her allies, in the coming war.

Allem, her oldest friend, her  _ best  _ friend, her general, raises his cup to her, and smiles from his shadows. He understands her strength better than anyone, she thinks, and having his trust is the strongest crutch she can afford to use, for fear of appearing weak.

"To friendship," she says, holding her own cup aloft. "May it endure long beyond these happy days."


End file.
